His World Was Empty
by SaraiEsq
Summary: Response to Laughing Librarian's challenge prompt ("The quiet consumed him. He gazed into the flickering light and thought..."). Roy may have to face a difficult reality. And... my muse agrees with the plurality of reviewers: There will be more to this story.
1. Chapter 1

**HIS WORLD WAS EMPTY**

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The quiet consumed him. He gazed into the flickering light and thought about the last time he'd heard her voice. It had been almost a week now, the days passing in mindless succession. Roy usually enjoyed the first few days of quiet time whenever Joanne and the kids went to her mother's for an extended stay but inevitably picked up extra shifts before the silence became an enemy instead of an ally. The extra money he made usually went to a good cause – like a romantic weekend getaway with Jo.

That this extra shift, however, might have converted the temporary absence of his wife's voice into a permanent one was a possibility he didn't want to consider.

Roy jumped as a gloved hand touched his shoulder, his back meeting the rear panel of the squad forcefully. Craig Brice's impassive-as-usual face appeared, his full lips forming carefully exaggerated words, his neatly-kept hands miming the message as well, and, after a moment, Roy nodded. He stood and walked unsteadily toward the ambulance, head throbbing again in time with his pulse. Garish light – from the flames still consuming the building, from the emergency apparatus positioned around the scene, from the fluctuating street lamps as power lines smoldered – dribbled over the ground, increasing Roy's disorientation with shadows that were too frantic and uncertain to stay still. He lurched to a stop beside the ambulance then silently climbed into the back after Brice, settling himself at the other patient's feet.

The door closed, shutting out the visual cacophony. On impulse, Roy reached out and pressed his hand against it. He barely caught the vibration of someone's firm double-tap on the door. The ambulance jolted into motion, causing him to lose contact with the door and grip the bench reflexively.

But, despite the blaring chaos of the active fire scene they were leaving, despite the sirens he knew were wailing brashly to clear the way before them, despite the medical beeps and uncertain breath sounds coming from the gurney, Firefighter/Paramedic Roy DeSoto could hear nothing.

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The patient (the _other_ patient) had gone into full arrest on the way to the hospital. Wrapped up in the cocoon of his own silent heart beats, a sudden spasm of motion from the other paramedic had been Roy's only clue something was amiss. He turned to assist, surprised when Brice abruptly pushed his hands aside. _No, DeSoto, stay back_, Craig mouthed emphatically then turned away. He watched as the ambulance attendant responded to Craig's verbal commands, Fred's dark eyes darting apologetically toward Roy.

At the hospital, Roy jumped out of the ambulance quickly then watched helplessly as Brice continued chest compressions on the 48-year-old male, riding the gurney into Exam 1, sweat staining his perfectly pressed shirt, no-nonsense glasses sliding down his nose, obsessively neat brown hair falling out of place with each futile thrust against the man's sternum.

A moment later, Dixie McCall's elegant features intruded on his line of sight, a worried frown on her face. _Come with me, Roy_, she said, guiding him into an exam room. When he stumbled slightly, he felt her fingers tighten on his still-jacketed arm. Dixie patted the exam table and Roy obediently situated himself on the sheet-covered surface. He could see Dixie's lips moving and imagined the nurse's dulcet voice speaking words of comfort and reassurance but they didn't matter. She helped him off with his turnout coat, the sweet musk of her perfume battling with the fire gear's smoky odors, and laid it over a chair in the corner. _Kel will be right in,_ she said. _Try to relax._ Roy nodded and settled back on the table, closing his eyes.

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Roy stared at the note Dr. Brackett had handed him, squinting to make out what the doctor had written. They'd been using a mixture of lip-reading, pantomime, and notes to communicate during the past few hours; it was an imperfect system at best.

"_I can't read this, Doc_," Roy said quietly. At least, he _thought_ it was quietly, _hoped_ it was quietly. He didn't ever want to be that guy, the one who was loud because he couldn't hear his own voice.

Dixie slipped the note out of Roy's fingers, glanced at it, shot Kel a look that spoke volumes, slid a pen out of her pocket, printed two words on the scrap of paper, and handed it back to the paramedic.

Dixie's clear, feminine capital letters let him know the results of Brackett's examination: NO RUPTURE.

"_That's good,_" Roy said. "_What about – ,_" he began then paused, mentally shifting gears. "_When will I be able to hear again?_" The paramedic knew the textbook answer but kept his eyes on Brackett's, watching for some sign the doctor was holding something back. His concentration was broken when he realized he'd failed to watch the man's lips. "_Could you, uh, could you say that again?_" he asked.

_It's hard to say, Roy_, Brackett repeated, shaping the expected words carefully. _Maybe a few hours, maybe a day or more, maybe –._

"_Maybe never. Right, doc?_"

Pressing his lips together and shaking his head, Brackett agreed reluctantly: _That's a possibility, Roy. But I don't want you to worry –._ The paramedic closed his eyes, shutting out the physician's empty words.

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His aches and bruises had been dulled by pain medications, encouraging him to sleep, but now in the middle of the night, Roy was awake again. The dim light in the hospital room he had to himself matched his mood, and he was grateful no friend or relative was camped out in an uncomfortable chair situated next to his hospital bed. He'd asked Dixie not to call anyone, not until morning, not until there was something to _know_. Normally, the report of his injury would have made its way to his captain by now, resulting in Hank's presence bedside whether he asked for it or not, but Roy knew the Stanley clan had made a quick trip up north to visit the in-laws. They'd even joked about how best to handle visits to and from in-laws.

So his world was empty right now. And the fear that nestled in the soft red marrow of his bones, slipping out blood cell by blood cell and steadily tracing through miles of blood vessels, had begun to nourish a panic in his heart.

To regain control of himself, Roy tried to recreate the fire scene in his mind, to slow it down and play it back, to slice it into bite-sized pieces and compartmentalize each bit properly. But the unheard sounds he'd always taken for granted were beginning to pile up in a back corner of his mind, threatening to spill over the quick dam he had erected when he realized the explosion at the fire – the explosion that had knocked both him and the unconscious victim he was carrying to the asphalt – had robbed him of his hearing. Brice's triage had appropriately slotted him in a lower priority than the gravely injured civilian Roy had brought out, leaving him parked on the squad's back bumper until the patient (the _other_ patient) was ready for transport. The realization had dawned in those few moments of isolation.

And he'd thought first of Joanne: the luxurious cadences of her voice in every season and emotion, the funny voices she used when reading to the children, the full-bodied singing of disco tunes she did when she thought no one was around to hear her, the soft giggles late at night under the blankets, the promises whispered into his ear as he left for his shift in the morning. Since then, he'd catalogued other muzzled auditory stimuli – a patient's sudden inhale when a tender spot was touched, the whoosh of blood through a vein while getting a BP, the _sproing_ of one of Chet's water bombs, the thrum of Big Red's engine in pump gear, the clatter of canine toenails on concrete, the laughter of the crew from 51 – but he kept coming back to his family, his children and his wife.

He licked his lips hesitantly and swallowed hard. Then he spoke her name, the same way he'd done at the scene, testing the external auditory canal and the tympanic membrane, the ossicles and Eustachian tubes, the semicircular canals and cochlea, hoping to hear – .

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_I do this for fun, not profit; the characters are not mine but the mistakes (without exception) are._


	2. Chapter 2

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"Joanne. Joanne, will you just calm down and listen to me for a minute?"

"I don't think there is anything to listen to," Roy's wife replied and continued packing at a determined pace, resisting the urge to just shove the t-shirts, shorts, jeans, slacks, undergarments, socks and extra shoes into the suitcase, and slam it shut, jumping on the textured blue Sampsonite case until it closed or broke. She drew another breath to calm herself. Everything she and the kids needed would fit into the suitcase; it had before, it would again. _Fold it neatly, stack it tightly, shoes in the pocket, makeup on the side – ._ She tried to keep her mind on what she was doing, to not think about what her future might be like without him.

"That's not fair." The petulant tone in that well-beloved voice brought her up short and she turned toward the door of her bedroom, eyes hardening as she raised her chin slightly.

"Why didn't you tell me sooner, then?"

"I knew you and the kids were having such a wonderful time, I didn't want to ruin it. And besides, how was I to know – ."

"_Mother_." The word was ground out between Joanne's clenched teeth. "No fire captain, including Hank Stanley, is going to call me, or any of the wives, long distance unless it is urgent. You should have told me as soon as I walked in the door." _That_ was part of what annoyed her most; it was high school all over again. Back then, her mom routinely neglected to pass along messages from or about Roy, hoping the misunderstanding would cause a rift between her and "that DeSoto boy", so her precious Jo would start seeing someone worthy of Shirley and Ralph Stewart's daughter.

"But it was so late when all of you got home from the boardwalk. Surely, you wouldn't have called Mr. Stanley back then – ." The older woman shrank back from her daughter's glare.

"_Captain_ Stanley was probably waiting up for the call, Mother." Joanne paused, refraining to mention what should be obvious: as a fireman, Hank was used to waking up at all hours of the night. "Why didn't you tell me this morning?"

"It slipped my mind, sweetheart, really. We were so busy getting ready to go and, until the phone rang, I just didn't think of it." A look of contrition crept over the older woman's face as her daughter turned back to the suitcase. "I am sorry, dear." Joanne resumed packing, noting a rip in her son's favorite shorts, the ones with the fire department logo on them. She would mend it when they got home, well-acquainted with repairing such rips. Chris had done it sometime in the past week, probably while climbing one of the trees in her parents' backyard. He was so like Roy sometimes. Roy had climbed those same trees on a regular basis when they were younger. More than once she'd sewn up tears in his clothes so Harriet DeSoto wouldn't become angry with him; Roy's mother could throw the most spectacular fits on occasion. Her mother's tentative voice intruded into the memory: "Do you, do you have to leave yet tonight?"

Joanne closed the suitcase, clicking the shiny metal latches shut, grasped the hard plastic handle firmly and swung it down to the hardwood floor of her childhood bedroom, the clatter it made as it settled there not unlike a big dog's lumbering stride. Eyes shining with unshed tears, she faced her mother again, knowing the battle was worth it. "Mom, Roy is in the _hospital_. I _need_ to be with him."

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The darkness had drifted down from the trees lining the road, enfolding the white station wagon in a resinous coverlet. Momentarily pushed aside by twin beams of yellow light, shadows wrapped fluidly around the car then invaded the interior compartment where they were held at bay by the dim lights of the dash and the glowing amber needle on the radio dial. The infrequent street lights splashed dribbles of whiteness over the faces of the two sleeping children in the back seat.

As she navigated the roadways between the house she grew up in and the home she had made with her husband, Joanne couldn't help but think of Roy. She knew her mother didn't get it, didn't understand the _why_s of Joanne's love for Roy, the love that had begun as a schoolgirl crush in the fourth grade. It had deepened into a true friendship, progressed into an awkward teenage romance, and endured a wartime separation before being formalized with ribbons and rice, consummated with passion, and blessed with children. The love she had for Roy entwined with her very self, defining and enriching her.

Hank had assured Joanne that Roy's injuries weren't life threatening, but until she could trace the contours of his face with her eyes, feel the timbre of his voice in her ears, and invite the scent of his skin into her nostrils, a little bit of her would doubt.

And fear.

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Roy was still asleep when she slipped into the hospital room that night, unashamedly defying visiting hours. Somehow, those rules didn't mean a thing to her.

Emily Stanley had appeared as if by magic shortly after Joanne and the kids arrived home, with a thermos of Hank's clam chowder, her knitting, a book, and a change of clothes. She'd helped pour the boneless youngsters into their beds, served up a cup of the warm soup – settling herself at the kitchen table until Joanne had finished it – and then announced her intention to stay with the DeSoto children. Emily had shooed a grateful and relieved Joanne out the door to Rampart less than thirty minutes later at which point Joanne realized the Stanley Edsel had been parked in front of her house when she'd pulled up, despite the hour.

She'd paused outside the door to Roy's room, raising her hand to thrust open the wooden barrier but failing to connect with it as she noticed the tanned trembling fingers that didn't seem to belong to her. The ring Roy had placed on her finger years ago – a small diamond nestled in a square filigree of white gold with two diamond chips set in the otherwise plain yellow gold band – shimmered gently as her hand shook. She drew in a shaky breath and, after a moment, lightly touched the door, able to feel the grain of the wood under her fingertips even though the lines were muted in the lowered light of a quiet ward. A footfall accompanied by a slight squeak of a rubber-soled shoe from around the corner prompted Joanne to push against the door and enter.

Roy's side of the room was dimmed; the sterile florescent fixture above the other, empty bed gleamed coolly and provided sufficient light to navigate the room without directly illuminating the patient. The thin goldenrod blanket was draped over harsh white sheets covering her husband's lower body. He'd pushed the blanket down at some point, no doubt uncomfortable in the uncharacteristically warm room, and she could easily see the rise and fall of his muscular chest beneath the plain t-shirt he'd finagled from someone to replace the uncomfortable hospital gown. Reassured, her own breath seemed to explode from her lungs in the stillness of the room.

He stirred slightly, face turning toward her; his unconscious movement allowed her to get a good look at the bruised jawline and the scrapes he'd apparently suffered in the explosion. His right hand rested on the bed palm up, fingers curled not quite protectively over the bandage it sported. There were a few small cuts on his arms but she couldn't tell how recent they were. She'd become accustomed to seeing those routine minor injuries on her husband's body, injuries that were the lot of working men everywhere no matter how careful they might be.

Joanne eased closer, eyes watching him greedily. It was clear the guys from the station had visited Roy sometime in the past three days: a stack of manly magazines, a plastic toy trumpet in garish orange and yellow, a few dog-eared paperbacks, a small notepad, and an avocado green Tupperware bowl rested in easy reach on the bedside table. An institutional chair was still positioned nearby and she settled herself quietly. The brightly colored oversized purse she'd bought while at her mother's slid off her shoulder and onto the well-washed linoleum floor with a brief clatter of buckles and beadwork, earning a reprimanding look from her.

When she turned back to the hospital bed, Roy's sleepy blue eyes were open.

"Jo?" His voice was soft, making it hard to determine the exact cause of the roughness she heard in it, a roughness that rubbed against her heart.

"Yes, love, it's me," she responded, leaning closer to kiss him. The look on his face confused her, making her pause short of her goal. "Roy," Joanne said, the questioning tone lifting the edge of his name slightly, and revealing the fears she felt for him. She saw his Adam's apple bob when he swallowed hard, the tip of his tongue barely flicking out to wet his lips, the way it did when he was nervous, and felt her own mouth go dry. Joanne gently touched his shoulder, fingertips feeling the familiar warmth of his skin through the fabric. "Roy," she asked, "can you hear me?"

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End file.
